life

I’m alive and I will survive,  show the world that I can take it

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I know I’ve shared about this before but it in 2025 it’s important to remember these things are still happening.  

In 2001, I was working for a little internet start up company.  Well, a smallish, to medium size start-up company. 

In May of that year, my little company was bought by the big company Pitney Bowes.  By the end of August all of my favorite employees had been let go.

For some reason, known only to someone more powerful than me, I was kept on. 

My friends all got six-month severance agreements.  Meanwhile, I kept going to an office that used to house 7 of us that now housed me. 

Then 9/11 happened.  

And if you’d read my post by 3:00 on September 11, 2001, I’d been ordered to report to Danbury, Connecticut on September 12. 

I said no.  And didn’t report until the end of the month.

I continued to commute to Danbury until the next spring. 

On Monday morning at 7:00 a.m. I’d arrive at the Hertz car rental on 34th street at Penn Station and rent a car.  I’d drive north and get to work just before 9:00.  

I’d spend the week at the Danbury Ramada Inn, which also housed an Outback Steakhouse.  I’d get to work at 9:00 a.m.  Do my thing. Leave at 5:00.  Go the gym.  Drive back to the hotel.  Order food to go from Outback.  (They always forgot my silverware). And be in bed by 11:00.

On Friday, I’d leave work at 5:00.  Drive back to NYC.  Return my car.  And take the subway home. 

My life was horrible. 

There is more to the story, but I’ll save that for another day. 

On May 9, 2002, I was called into the HR office, where I was told they were restructuring the marketing team and that my position was being eliminated. 

On the outside I was pissed, while on the inside, I was popping champagne.

They slid the severance agreement across the desk and said here’s what we are offering.

(I had just read a post in Men’s Health that said severance agreements are negotiable). 

I told them, I’d have to read it over, and that I’d get back to them.  

In the end, they paid me 10,000 dollars more than they offered, plus back bonuses.

However, I was happy, happy, happy to never drive back to Danbury, Connecticut ever again. 

Truth be told, 25 years later and I’ve never been back, although I’ve been told the restaurant seen is a little more vibrant now. 

It’s the end of May.  I’m unemployed, and my old boss calls me.  He tells me that he’s just been hired by a company in Chicago that is opening their first New York satellite office.  He wants to know if I want to join the team. 

I immediately say yes. 

My first day is on June 10, 2002.  I arrive and do my thing.  I’m office manager, and I’ve been tasked with setting up a new office.  We need computers, printers, internet, paper, phone etc.

I get to work.

All is well.  

My boss calls me on Tuesday, to let me know that the owner of the company, Marge, will be in town on Wednesday and wants to meet me.  She has arranged for us to meet for lunch. 

I get to work on Wednesday and get to work. We’ve received a million boxes and I get started opening them.  On my fifth or sixth box, I slide the scissors across the tape, only to slice my finger open.  Fuck.  Fuck.  Fuck. 

It’s still bleeding at noon when I am needing to leave for lunch with the owner of my company.  

I wrap a paper towel around my finger, wrap rubber bands around it to keep it in place and leave for lunch. 

Lunch is pleasant enough. 

She’s nice.  She asks about my goals.  Where I see myself in five years.  I talk about theater, wanting to be a lighting designer.  It’s fine. 

When I leave lunch, I go immediately to the St. Vincent emergency room and get five stitches in my finger.  

The next day, I go to work as usual. 

Then Friday, I repeat the process. 

Around 11:00 my old boss calls and tells me to stop work.

Then proceeds to tell me what has transpired in the last 48 hours.

Thursday night, he’d had a meeting with Marge, and her assistant, where she said,   Mike (the assistant) I know you are gay.  Jeff is obviously gay.  Looks at my boss and says, I assume you are gay.  I won’t have my New York office run by all gay men.  Jeff has to go.

My old boss took copious notes.  Said he’d deal with it.  And left the meeting. 

On Friday morning, when he called me he was supposed to be on his way to a company wide meeting where, he’d be introduced to the company as the head of the new New York location.  Instead, he was on his way to the airport to fly home to New York. 

He told me to pack up any personal shit I had, take the new espresso make home with me, and get out of the office.  By noon I was on my way uptown. 

First stop, the NYC LGBT center.  I met with one of their employees, who gave me the number of a civil rights attorney. 

A week later, my old boss and I are sitting in his office, telling him our story. 

Fun fact, it’s illegal in NYC to fire someone for being gay.  

Now to the fun part of the story. 

On Saturday, after the firing, my old boss, talked to her assistant, who corroborated the whole story.  All the details, etc.  My boss recorded the conversation.  Mike never spoke to either of us again, but the damage had been done.  

The lawyer sent the transcript of the phone call to the opposing attorney.  

They asked for mediation.

Mediation was us sitting across the table from her, while she told me all the ways I was unqualified to do the job I’d been hired to do.  Simply because theater was my first love.  I’d like to say, that if you walked into any new office in NYC right now, half the employees at line level want a theater career.  They may never have it, but that’s why they are in NYC. 

Mediation ended poorly. 

By now it’s approaching the end of 2002.  The legal process is not fast. 

Sometime in late November, we were called and told that they other company was settling. 

Each of us would be awarded $250,000 each.  

Hehehehehe.  

We got checks in January. 

It’s the most money I ever made for the least amount of work.  

I took my money and promptly applied for graduate school. 

In the end Marge’s bigotry bought me a new red Mini Cooper 5-speed, moved me from NYC to San Diego, paid for my apartment and got me through my first year of grad school.  

It’s never nice of her don’t you think. 

The point is, I was fired for being gay.  

It’s still happening.

This is why we have pride month.  This is why we fight.  

Right now, my trans brothers and sisters are being asked to leave the military.  Men and women willing to die for your right to be a bigot. 

There are people still being fired.  Silenced. 

So fight.  Don’t be silent.  Don’t be complicit. 

Do the right thing. 

At remember, bigotry doesn’t pay, except when it does.  

Goodness gracious, that’s why I’m a mess!

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

During the last weekend of April, in 2000, I flew to Washington D.C. from NYC and met my friend Michelle, her girlfriend Meredith and my friend Sam for the Millenium March on Washington.

It was the first real gay event that I’d ever attended.

The weekend was packed with events, a concert, protests, a march and a festival.

We all met there, and checked in to our very cheap, budget hotel.

It was a Friday morning and the fun, pride filled weekend lay in front of us.

There are a few things that stand about the weekend.

Sam was at the hotel for about three minutes, said he was off to meet friends, and I didn’t seem him again all weekend.

Meredith and I fought all weekend about the thermostat. She thought the a/c should be on 78. I thought it should be on 60. She won.

And I’m pretty sure when we said goodbye on Sunday night, it was the last time I saw her.

On Friday night, there was a huge concert at JFK Stadium, called Equality Rocks. We had nose bleed seats, but the energy was insane. It was sold out, and the crowd was going wild. So many amazing people performed.

Melissa Ethridge, KD Lang, George Michael, Garth Brooks, Chaka Khan, and the Pet Shop Boys.

The most moving moment of the night was when Matthew Shepherd’s parents took the stage. His mom spoke eloquently about the role of she’d been thrust into by the murder of her son.

She was everybody’s mom that night. She owned it.

It was late when the concert was over.

The three of us, started down from the top of the stadium. Taking one escalator after another.

On the third escalator, a man caught my eye.

Very much caught my attention.

He waited for me at the bottom.

We talked for a few moments, and then we both started our journey again toward the exits.

We got outside the stadium, and were now very much in love.

He asked me if I wanted to come home with him, and how better to celebrate the gay movement than by being gay.

I told Michelle, I’d meet her at the march the next day, and we walked to his car.

As he drove me to his house, he let me know that he was a police officer in Boston, and that he’d flown down for the March. He was in D.C. staying with his family, who very supportive of him.

We got back to his place, shared a beer and fell asleep.

Get your mind out of the gutter. This is a PG story. Plus, it’s been 25 years I barely remember that it happened.

We woke up the next morning, to breakfast cooking.

He asked me if I was hungry? I said sure, did you cook breakfast.

He replied, no but my mom did.

He’d failed to mention that when he said he was here with his parents, he meant at their house.

Ever hear of the walk of shame.

Well, I got dressed, and went downstairs and was introduced to the mom, the dad, the two sisters and the family dog.

We all had a hearty breakfast, while I pretended not to be embarrassed.

After breakfast, he drove us back in to DC, and dropped me off near the spot I was to meet Michelle and Meredith.

I found them, we marched.

At the end of the day, we all went our separate ways. Me back to NYC. Them back to Chicago.

Two interesting facts about the boy in question.

He has a very distinct name.

Two or three years later, I was reading a true crime novel, set in Massachussets, and the book mentioned him as a investigative police person in the case.

He was also booked on American Airlines Flight 11, out of Boston to L.A. on 9/11. He missed the flight and the rest you can say is history.

We stayed in touch for a bit. One of the last times I spoke with him was just before I moved to San Diego to start grad school.

And a quick google search has shown that he is now a very high ranking Boston police officer and makes a ton of money, because it’s public info.

I found him on Facebook.

He has a cute boyfriend.

And a dog.

I’d rather be sailing…

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I missed yesterday, so there are two posts today.

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Most of my younger friends, would never believe that I have not always been an overweight middle aged man.

In fact, at one time you might call me attractive.

Might.

If your glasses were foggy and you hadn’t had cataract surgery.

However, I did okay for myself.

When I lived in Atlanta, I never really had a boyfriend.

Well, I had one for about 5 minutes. But that’s a story for another day.

I did date a bit. Although not much. I was too busy living my best life.

There are a few men who stand out in Atlanta. Matt, the boyfriend. Chris who tried to get me to like red wine. Dave, the artist. The guy whose name I’ll remember later, who went on to make a huge fortune in designing chandeliers. Tony, who I stayed in contact with and of course.

And Shel the furniture distributor.

This story is about Shel.

I have no idea, how we met.

I do remember our first date.

We had lunch, in the spring, at a café that over looked Piedmont Park.

He picked me up in his baby blue Mercedes convertible, and was the perfect gentleman.

He was easily 45, with a weathered appearance, that gave the impression he’d grown up on a sailboat. His face was tanned, and his hair was blondish grey. His eyes, were crystal blue and he spoke with a slight Norwegian accent.

The only thing I know about his wealth, was that he and his Norwegian family, owned a European furniture company and distribution center.

I never asked. He didn’t offer up much information.

We were never exclusive. We’d go out to mostly lunches, and early dinners. He’d drive me around town in the convertible and I felt like royalty. He was wicked funny, and very sweet.

His apartment, was in a high rise, and it had beautiful views of Atlanta.

One of the memories that I remember clearly was going to Neiman Marcuss with him where he was picking up and paying for pants that had been altered for him. When he paid, the register said $750. In 1988. What the fucking fuck.

He was in excellent shape and looked as good out of clothes as he did in his $750 pants. He really was beautiful.

We dated casually throughout the summer, and then our summer romance kind of fizzled. I don’t remember a conversation. I don’t remember a break up. I just remember one day I had a friend with a powder blue Mercedes convertible and the next day I didn’t.

Truth be told, I probably have his old phone number written in an address book in a box in my closet. And for the life of my I can’t remember his last name, which was Norwegian.

For a moment though, my star shone brightly.

Something bad is happening.

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

By the time I graduated high school in 1983, AIDS was no secret.

It wasn’t getting the national attention it should have, Reagan was still pretending it didn’t exist, and gay men were dying across the country.

In Central Kentucky, I felt isolated. I felt protected.

I won’t say I was as careful as I should have been.

I went off to college, also in central Kentucky, and it was very much the same. Still not as much attention as it should have been getting. Reagan might have mentioned. it by then, and by this time the number of deaths were staggering.

Still, I felt isolated, protected.

In September 1987, I moved to Atlanta.

Suddenly, I wasn’t in little “ole” Kentucky.

Suddenly, I knew gay people. Suddenly, I was out of the closet.

I was much more careful, but not as careful as I should have been.

By the time I left Atlanta, it was a full-blown national nightmare.

I moved back to Central Kentucky.

I was terrified. I’d met men who had been diagnosed with HIV and AIDS, it was very close to home.

And yet. It was 1989, and I had never been tested.

I’d seen the posters around town. In the bars. On the bulletin boards at school.

Finally. I said I’ll do it.

I drove to the health department on Newtown Road. Around to the back. In a satellite trailer, similar to the ones they use at high schools now.

I went in, took a number.

I was scared to death.

I waited about 16 hours. Actually, I don’t remember how long it actually was. It seemed like a decade.

I was taken back. I was asked some questions. I was told the test could be anonymous.

The nurse was very sweet. Caring. Gentle.

She drew the blood.

I was given a sheet of paper with a number on it. As it was anonymous, it would be how I’d be matched to my result when I came back.

In two weeks.

What the fucking fuck?

If the wait to draw blood was a decade, the two-week wait was a century. Everything was in slow motion those two weeks. Work. School. Rehearsal.

Two weeks later, I made the trek back out to the trailer.

I was taken into a room with a counselor. I was told they always have a counselor just in case it’s positive.

The envelope was opened.

A breath was taken.

I was told

It was.

Negative.

The emotion that rushed over me, was immense.

How could this be? I was only kind of careful. Surely it was wrong.

But it was not.

Fast forward 35 years and I’m tested at every physical. It’s part of my routine blood work for cholesterol and my A1C.

I’m still not sure how I remained negative.

I spent almost 12 years in New York City. I was always kind of careful.

I’m forever grateful.

So many people in my generation were not so lucky.

The care has come a long way, but there are still people worldwide, who are suffering and dying from this horrible disease.

Look I made a hat, where there never was a hat.

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

32, 013 words.

23 Chapters.

A million miles to go.

I called my Aunt Debbie yesterday, just to check in. She is the last of my mom’s siblings. We’ve been close my whole life. Well since her parents passed, and my mother became her guardian.

That was 59.5 years ago.

I check in every so often to see how she is doing. What’s up with the family I never hear from and to have a connection back to Kentucky and home.

Yesterday she asked me if I was still writing.

I assured her I was.

We talked about what I was writing. How it was going. And how much longer till I was done.

It felt nice to be asked. To have someone in my family be interested in what I’m doing.

I had told her about my writing about 6 or 8 months ago, as I needed her help. I needed facts, stories, folk lore about my family. I confessed to her that I was writing a book about my mom’s passing. Of course, that was just the way in to the rest of the story. It’s actually a book about me, my family, and where I come from.

I like to think of it as Hillbilly Eulogy without the eyeliner and hate.

Thing is, most of the people I’m connected to, that know the truth are all gone. This is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing, because there is no one to yell at me for the telling the truth. A curse because there is no one to confirm that it is the truth.

A while back, I reached out to Debbie to ask questions about something I was including. The death of my mother’s father. The details of which I knew with broad strokes, but did not know the exact details. I had written a chapter about his death and wanted to know how close I was to reality.

The facts were there, but I’d invented a good portion of it. Which is fine. It’s far from non-fiction. I was never an astronaut, but when the books starts, I’ve just gotten back from Mars. I kid, I kid.

When we talked 6 or so months ago we talked for about an hour. I was typing notes as she filled me in on the truth about his death, but also the stories of a million other things that I wanted to know.

My mom’s best friends? Who she dated? Where she worked? What kind of car did she drive?

I now have about 10 pages of notes that I took that night.

After we talked, I realized that most of my details of my grandfather’s death were far from factual. The question became, do I make it real? Or do I let it play out in my way?

Anyway.

I talked to Debbie yesterday. And she asked if I was still writing. It felt good to know she cared.

Someday, I’ll let her read it, reminding her that it’s my version of what I remember hearing around the dinner table.

Now on to Chapter 24.

Dear Pen Pal.

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I’d like to speak to the manager!

Last night I started out to write a post about my freshman year at Georgetown College.  

Perhaps this will be that post.  

In late summer of 1983, I attended a freshman orientation.  I remember two things about it.  

The first person who saw me on campus that day, walked up and said, and I quote, “Hi, my name is Karen. Are you saved?”

I should have immediately taken a gap year, transferred to EKU, and attended the state of Kentucky’s party school.  

I did not do that.  

I do not remember my response, but I do remember to this day, thinking what an odd way of making friends.  

At some point during the day, I met a guy named Gary.  Without looking through a yearbook, I have no idea what his last name is.  

We instantly hit it off and by the end of the day, had agreed to be roommates.  

Fun fact:  I was told when filling out paperwork to live on campus, that if you said you had asthma you would not be put in the freshman dorm and instead would be in the new dorms on the other side of campus.  Dorms that had air conditioning.  Turns out this was absolutely true.  

In mid-August, I put all of my worldly belongings into my 1971 Ford Galaxy and drove it to campus.  This consisted of clothes.  A few books.  And not much else.  

However, we were determined to have a cool room, so by the end of August we’d bought a cool couch and a recliner at the local thrift store.  The recliner was bright green and the vinyl covering had seen far better days.  Somewhere I have photos of all of this. 

Gary was from St. Louis, was in the ROTC and LOVED Christian rock music.  Petra was his favorite band, and by the end of the first semester, it was a favorite of mine as well.  

Funny, how you get caught up in what everyone else is doing.  The only reason I attended church as long as I did, was because I loved the music.  In fact, long after I stopped believeing I’d attend church, just to sing the hymns I grew up with.  By the end of my first year at Georgetown, I had bought albums by Sandy Patty and Amy Grant and of course Petra.  El Shaddai.

About halfway thru the fall semester, Gary was talking with a friend of his on the phone.  Attached to the wall.  With a cord.  (Remind me to tell you about having an answering machine).  He was talking to his friend Valerie who he went to high school with.  She wanted to know if he wanted cookies or brownies in a care package.  He asked me my preference, and I said brownies, and a few days later a package arrived with brownies.  

We were excited to get them because getting packages at college was fun.  This went on for a few more weeks and eventually, I sent Valerie a thank you letter.  She wrote me back.  I wrote her back.  And thus began the back and forth of letters between Valerie and Jeff.   

The letters were silly.  Lists of questions we had for the other person.  Thoughts about school.  Thoughts about the world.  At the time her favorite perfume was Lauren, by Ralph Lauren, and she’d spritz the letters. She’d send boxes.  I’d send boxes.  

This continued into the spring semester.  With both of us sending three, four, five letters a week.  Multiple letters at a time.  Numbered of course.  

Sometime in mid-February, and I don’t know how it came up, it was suggested that I go visit her over spring break.  And I did.  My Aunt, and her boyfriend at the time, drove me to St. Louis.  With her kids.  We went up in the St. Louis Arch.  We toured the church beneath it.  And on a Sunday afternoon, Val and her parents picked me up and took me to their home. 

It was a perfectly lovely week.  We laughed.  We had fun.  And the ONLY thing I remember about the whole week is that we saw Footloose at the movie theater, with her friends.  It was on Friday night, the last night I’d be there.  Footloose will always be the movie of my freshman year of college.  Let’s hear it for the boys.  

On Saturday, my aunt came back to pick me up.  

On Monday, school started again.  

And I think I got one or two more letters after I visited.  

She stopped writing.  I stopped writing.  

And that was the end of that.  Never to be heard from again.

But. 

Here’s the fun part.  

Every letter that I ever, ever, ever received from the time I was eight or nine until well into my late 20’s, is in a box in my office.  Including every letter I ever received from Val.  

Part of me thinks I should toss them.  

Part of me thinks I should look her up and see what happened to her.

Part of me thinks I should open up ALL the letters and reminiscence.  

Part of me says, wait till I’m dead and let Adam deal with them.  

Gary, didn’t return for our sophomore year.  And I never heard from him again either.  

Fun story about Gary.  One day his alarm went off, he got up, showered, dressed and left for ROTC stuff, only to find out someone (NOT ME) had fucked with his alarm and set it two hours early.  He arrived at 4:00 a.m. instead of 6:00.  We had a good laugh about that.  

In the meantime, I haven’t written a letter in 20 years.  But if in fact, you were one of the people I corresponded with in my 20’s, Jayne Sadlon, and Julia Roberts then I still have those letters. 

Rocky Horror Picture Show

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Picture this. Sicily 1902.

Actually, the date is summer, 1983. I have just graduated from high school. I’m working at Wendy’s and mowing a friend’s lawn to make money.

The weekends are spend going to Rocky Horror in Lexington, to a dollar cinema in Chevy Chase that ceased to exist around a million years ago.

A typical Saturday night involved, picking up my friends. Stephanie. Scott. Kendra. The list goes on. I would drive until I wrecked my car. Actually, Stephanie wrecked my car, as I was teaching her to drive.

We’d drive to Lexington, and then stop at the drive thru liquor store on the way into Lexington. We’d ask for a bottle of cheap vodka and was never, ever carded. The glory of drive through liquor stores and friends who looked over 21. Actually, I don’t think they cared.

The truth was, the county I grew up in was dry. No liquor sales. Not ever. Period.

In college we’d talk about going West which was the name of the liquor store just over the county line, West Liquors. It also had a drive thru.

We’d drive thru the liquor store, and then stop for orange juice at a convenience store.

We’d find parking near the theater, and then pour the vodka into the orange juice. We’d pass it around and it only took a sip or two for most of us to swear we were tipsy.

Finally, at 11:50 we get out of my 1971 Ford Galaxy and walk toward the Chevy Chase Cinema.

The movie is The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I saw that move 50+ times ove the course of the last year. I know all of the lines. I know all of the actors.

We take a seat and then at exactly 12:01, the movie starts.

Michael Rennie was ill
The Day the Earth Stood Still
But he told us where we stand
And Flash Gordon was there
In silver underwear
Claude Rains was The Invisible Man
Then something went wrong
For Fay Wray and King Kong
They got caught in a celluloid jam
Then at a deadly pace
It Came From Outer Space
And this is how the message ran

We brought all the props. We screamed out all of the added dialogue.

We were far from virgins. By the end of summer, I’d seen the movie more than 50 times.

Sometime in the middle of the summer, on a rainy night, my friend Stephanie was driving. She pulled onto the street, skidded and ended up hitting a truck.

It’s when I learned that auto insurance goes with the car, not the driver, her father could pay for the damage, and it was the end of a car that I would give a million bucks to still be driving today.

A 1971 Ford Galaxy, with red leather interior and a creamy off-white exterior. 15,000 miles, only driven by my mom’s bosses, wife.

At the end of the movie, we’d stand and celebrate the success that was our attendance at the movie.

Then we’d find my. The small bottle of vodka, properly disposed of in the trash barrel on the street. Any hope of tipsiness long gone.
We’d laugh about how awesome we were to know all the feedback.
And I’d drive us home.

In Georgetown, I’d drop everyone off at their cars, or their homes.

Then I’d drive Stephanie and me, to Sadieville.

The ritual, repeated itself until we all left to go our separate ways at the end of the summer.

In August, I’d start Georgetown College. Baptist College. No drinking. No girls in your dorm room. Only having had dancing for the past 4 years.

Fun fact. This was a post about my Freshman year at Georgetown, and ended up being about the summer after my senior year of high school.

More to come later.

Go Apes!!!

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

A friend of mine, who I’ve known since elementary school, just celebrated her 60th birthday.  This means that I’ve known her for 4,786 years.  

We met in elementary school at Great Crossing Elementary.  GO APES!!!

The school is so old, that they’ve closed it, turned it into an office building and built a great big new high school with the name Great Crossing High School.  PS.  I’m about 99% sure that my elementary school was a first through twelfth grade school when it was built in 1583.  

It was called Great Crossing, because our indigenous friends, we stole the land from, called it that, because buffalo, before we killed them all, used to cross the creek near the location of our school.  

I digress.  

My friend turned 60.  

Which reminded me that I’m about to turn 60.  (Shop early.  Shop often!)

How the fuck am I about to turn 60?

The point is, that for her birthday, and because the world is a great big dumpster fire at the moment, she decided to do 30 days of questions about books, authors, reading habits etc.  

What is your favorite non-fiction book?

Who is your favorite author?

What is the first book you read as a child?

What’s your favorite book series?  

It’s been fun.  It’s been distracting.  

Today’s question and I quote:  Your preferred way to read, with percentages.

Meaning do you read an actual book?  Do you read a digital copy?  Audio books?  Books on tape?  Etc.  

I answered:

Books.  Actual real live books.  Always. 

Except:

In my life I have listened to one audio book.  Actually 2.  I listened to a murder mystery in the 90’s on my cassette player, and I hated it.  And.  I listed to an Audible recording of a book in 2014.  The Talented Mister Ripley.  Didn’t like that either.  

Then.  

In the summer of 2003, my friend Michelle read East of Eden by John Steinbeck, aloud to me, as we drove cross country from NYC to San Diego.  

The back story.  

I was accepted into grad school in the spring of 2003.  And being me, that was full of drama that I should share here, because to my knowledge most everyone who knows me would have had no idea.  And all of you would love to hear the story.  

I was going to attend the University of California, in San Diego, to FINALLY get my MFA in lighting.  I say FINALLY, because I’d attempted this two other times before I got to San Diego and finished it.  

In July of 2003, I flew to San Diego and found an apartment.  Fun fact.  Do NOT go to San Diego during Comic Con and hope to find a hotel under a million dollars, that is clean, safe, and livable. The hotel I stayed in was questionable at best. 

By the end of the weekend, I’d seen a production of Falsettos at Diversionary Theater, and signed a lease on an apartment.  And somehow lost a friend, and I still have no idea why.  

A month later, I put my shit in a 24’ U-Haul and started the trek cross country.  I was driving and my friend Michelle was riding shotgun navigating.   

The first day, we got to Kentucky.  Lexington.  Michelle was there to see her mom.  I was there to see my mom.  A 10 hour stop to hug some necks and say hello.  I also picked up two pieces of antique furniture for my friend Jay from high school and college, who lived in L.A. and I was cheaper than a shipping company. 

Day 2.  We get in the truck and continue our drive west.  

Fun fact.  

As you drive west in a U-Haul truck, there aren’t a lot of music choices.  You are constantly hitting the search button on the radio or you have static.  There was no Sirius.  There was no attaching the phone to the truck.  It was FM all the way baby.  

Fun fact:  As you drive toward the middle of the country, sliding into the south, there are two types of stations available.  Country.  Jesus.  Nothing else.  You might find Billy Joel on a station long enough to hear half of Uptown Girl, before the static kicked in, or it was replaced by country or Jesus.  

By the end of the first third of the second day, we were tired, hungry, and annoyed with the radio.  

I don’t know how it came to happen, but somehow, Michelle ended up opening the copy of East of Eden I’d bought before the trip because it was Oprah’s book of the month.  

She turned to page one, and opened it and read: 


THE SALINAS VALLEY is in Northern California. It is a long narrow swale between two ranges of mountains, and the Salinas River winds and twists up the center until it falls at last into Monterey Bay.

I remember my childhood names for grasses and secret flowers. I remember where a toad may live and what time the birds awaken in the summer—and what trees and seasons smelled like—how people looked and walked and smelled even. The memory of odors is very rich.

For three and a half days she read aloud to me, as I drove across the American dessert.  I couldn’t take a turn as I get violently car sick when I read in a car.  And she didn’t mind that I was driving the big truck.  

She read.  I drove. 

We only took breaks when we were in a city that I had to navigate.  

There were times when we’d pull into a gas station and she’d continue to read to the end of the chapter.  We’d stop for food once, and she’d read another 15 minutes, becaue we were engrossed in the book.  

She got us to the end of Part 3 about 90 minutes before we got to San Diego. 

I have to say it is the best way to enjoy a book ever.  We were able to talk about it while we were stopped for food.  We got excited for cliff hangers when we stopped for gas.  And we were disappointed we wouldn’t finish the book together.

I still hate that I had to read part 4 on my own like a regular person, when she flew off to Michigan after our trip cross country. (Ask me about that story). 

So.  

I highly recommend the book.  It’s awesome.  

I highly recommend letting your best friend read it to you.  

And I highly recommend having your best friend read it to you as you drive across the American Southwest avoiding Jesus.  

New Kid In Town

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I haven’t written publicly in a while.  

Privately I’m 30,000 words into a novel about…well something.  

However, I do miss writing for an audience.  Actually, I miss it a lot.  

I have a million ideas.  Seriously.  If I was more motivated.  More driven.  More focused.  I’d have probably already signed a trillion-dollar book deal.  Or at least have published a pamphlet I leave on people’s cars.  I enjoy it a lot.  

So to back up, on Sunday, I worked a very long shift.  And I mean very long.  It was very busy.  It was crazy. We are at the end of restaurant week and to be honest, it’s been a great help to an otherwise boring spring.  

When I came upstairs from the office at 4:00 to check in on the staff, make sure the doors were open and inspect the dining room Cher was playing on the speakers.  I smiled to myself.  Who doesn’t love Cher.  Although, it did make me remember that my 23 year old host from Norway has no idea who Cher is but that’s another story.  

As the night started at 4:00, the music continued.  I learned that the station was a Cher station on Pandora.  The music continued and as it did, the songs I knew continued.  One right after another.  And every song that played had a story.  Dolly, Journey, Billy, The Bee Gee’s, even Elvis.  

My young host and servers were all hanging out waiting for the night to begin and as the songs played I kept them entertained with a story about each one.  And is always the case, I thought to myself, this would be a great writing exercise.  Sharing music stories with all of you.  

This is the first.  It might be my last and only one.  But it IS my first. 

New Kid in Town:  Eagles.  1976/1977. 

For me it’s January 1977. 

It’s snowing.  It’s been snowing for 12 months.  

We missed the last day of school before Christmas break, which was supposed to be the day of our Christmas party.  It’s now the middle of January.  It’s still snowing.  It’s been almost a month, and we have still not been back to school.  For almost 8 days we didn’t leave our house.  Our road, Carrick Road, has not been plowed in a week.  Our yard, stretches out for a 100-yards, even though, 50 feet from our house, it’s supposed to drop 5 feet to the road.  It is snowy.  

When the plows finally clear a one lane path, my parents need to go back to work.  I’m in 6th grade and my mom the worrier won’t let my brother and I stay home by ourselves.  

On the first day of clear roads, we get up at 6:30, get dressed and by 7:00 are on our way to Lexington with our parents.  We’ll stay at my mom’s office with her, while my dad goes to his job.  

It is snowing.  Hard.  The snow in the headlights looks like a scene from some space movie.  There is snow on both sides of the road.  My father has both hands tight on the steering wheel.  He is hunched over, paying attention.  You can tell he knows it’s his job to drive, to get us to our destination in one piece.    

A song plays on the radio station WLAP, 630 am.  New Kid In Town by the Eagles.   The song wraps up and a DJ tells us about the weather.  The news.  They continue to talk as my dad slowly maneuvers the slippery roads in his pick up truck

There is no talking. 

We drive.    

My mother lights another cigarette, she hates traveling in the snow.  She will smoke non-stop until we arrive at her office. 

After what seems like 6 hours we finally arrive in Lexington on Newtown Pike.  The roads clear.  There is a collective sigh of relief as the worst of our trip is behind us.  Finally, we arrive at 200 Cox Street.  A tile and carpet subcontracting building.  

We have made it alive.  My mother is happy.  

We get out of the truck, and climb the icy concrete steps to the cold aluminum sided building she works in. She unlocks the door.  We are the only ones there.  She flips on the over head fluorescent lights and turns on the heat.  There is no plumbing in her office so they keep the heat off when no one is there.  It’s about 4* and won’t be warm till around the time we eat lunch. 

She is a bookkeeper.  She has been a bookkeeper for years.  She started this job, working for my uncle three years ago.  Her office is wood paneled, covered in maps.  There are sample books of carpet and tile everywhere.  The walls, the “art”, the maps on the all are all yellowed from years of smoking in the office.  The office smells of damp cold air and cigarette smoke.  

My brother and I will spend the day here.  I’m 11 but my mother doesn’t trust my brother and I to spend the day alone at home.  We will go to her office every day.  We sit on the floor if anyone else is there, as she only has one chair and it’s hers.  There are two offices behind hers is occupied by the man who runs the business.  The back office, the owner of the company, I haven’t seen in weeks.  We get settled and we countdown the 8 hours wait until we can go home again.  This pattern repeats itself, every day till the second week of February.

I wander around the office.  Looking at calendars.  A map of Lexington.  The blueprints of a school they have been hired to carpet and tile.  I go through drawers.  I open boxes.  It’s 8:45 and I’m bored out of my mind.    My one consolation is that I can read.  Once I figure out where to plant myself, I’ll pull out a book and get settled.  

Today I am reading a book called Today I Am a Ham.  I love reading.  It’s saved me from my life more times than I can count.  

My mom turns on her radio, pours a cup of coffee, lights a cigarette and starts to work.  I can hear the sound of the adding machine and typewriter.  The phone rings, Good Morning, L. Standafer Company.  My mother has a phone voice.  She is a different person when she answers the phone.  Calm.  Kind.  Relaxed.   Not at all how she talks to us.   

She answers the questions.  Takes notes.  Say’s goodbye and hangs up.  She goes back to work.  

I wander around the building.  Into the warehouse, which is not heated.  I can see my breath as I walk around looking at rolls of carpet and boxes of tiles.  I eventually find myself in her boss’s office.  It is filled with blueprints.  Even to this day, I’ve been fascinated by floor plans.  I look through them, thinking one day I might like to be an architect. 

I seat myself in her boss’s empty chair. I pretend to be the boss, picking up the phone.  Opening and shutting drawers.  Finally, I pull out my book to read.  The time goes by faster when I am reading.  I open the book to the first page.   I’m a little old for it, but I had it at home and it’s been a favorite for years.  I read, and read, and read, and read, and read.  I start to get drowsy. I close my eyes for a second, and I’m asleep.  

When I open my eyes, it’s time for lunch.  We eat boloney sandwiches, with potato chips and dessert is a Little Debbie oatmeal pie.  After lunch the day repeats itself, with my mom answering the phone, me reading and my brother doing who knows what. 

At 4:30 my father arrives, to start the drive back home.  It’s as treacherous as the morning drive.  

Everyday for 6 weeks I hear the song New Kid In Town.  And to this day, when it plays, I can see myself squeezed in to the middle of the pick up truck, listening to the lyrics, followed by the news on WLAP.  

I have a love hate relationship with this song.  It’s a lovely song, but the music, the lyrics, take me back to the winter of 1977 and my long trek to the 200 Cox Street.  

Jeff at the Psychiatrist, a three-part mini opera

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Once upon a time.

Way back before the internet. Before cell phones. Almost before electricity.

I was an asshole.

A raging, giant, not forgettable asshole.

I can hear all of you who know me now saying, well that tracks.

Seriously, I was.

I was once fired by an assistant principal from a lighting gig because I told him to close the fucking door.

I’ll tell that story another day.

I once threw a watch at a boyfriend, and broke the glass in our French doors.

Another day.

I once ripped up a photograph of a boyfriend’s childhood home, because he pissed me off.

Another day.

I once threw a tray, with four ice tea glasses filled with ice tea, at a manager. (He deserved it).

Another day.

I once rudely told a classmate of mine that he was off key, making fun of his song, because you know, that’s who I was.

Another day.

I once called a cousin a backwoods country fuck.

Another day. (This one might have been warranted, but probably not).

I have a few stories that I’m just too embarrassed to share with you.

But don’t you worry, these stories keep me awake at night several times a year.

Sometimes, I even took pride in being an asshole. Telling actors what I thought of their performances. Telling co-workers how bad they were. Telling family members what I thought of them.

I’m sure there are people in my current life that would assure you that I have not changed.

They are probably a little right.

Truth be told, the one thing that changed for me. That led me away from a life of assholery.

Was being medicated.

April 20, 2001.

I know this, because I started a new journal on the morning after my first dose of the medicine.

The journal was specific. It was detailed. The days that followed, I wrote about the pain and suffering. But it also detailed the changes that followed after I started the medicine.

I bring all of this up, because last night, going through a box, I found said journal.

And I read through it.

I don’t recognize the person who wrote in the journal. Not at all.

The pain. The suffering. The longing to be better.

I don’t recognize the person, but I remember writing the posts.

I don’t remember the pain, but I remember writing about it.

It’s been almost 25 years since I started taking the meds.

I went off of them once in 2012, ruined Thanksgiving, and swore to Adam, I’d never do that again.

Another day.

As I read through the journal, I put it in the trash pile. Along with a bunch of other stuff.

Luckily, the trash was full, and I was too lazy to change it so I kept the whole pile. I put it back in my office.

Today, I decided not to throw the journal away, as there is a whole story there to tell.

When I started taking the medicine, I also started seeing my psychiatrist for the therapy. He didn’t take insurance. He had a fancy 5th Avenue office. And it was a whole bunch of money each month. And more than any money I’ve ever spent on cars, tuition, vacation, this money changed my life.

I didn’t stop being an asshole overnight. But slowly, over the years it waned. And I became a better person. And more than not being an asshole, I learned to like the person that I’d become. After close to 50 years of really kind of hating myself, I realized that there was good guy in there all along.

I sometimes think that the reason I survived my asshole years is because along the way I found people who could see me for who I wanted to be and not who I was currently being. People who never gave up on me. Who knew that I’d find my way.

I had a few who didn’t make it. They gave up. Walked away. Decided it wasn’t worth the effort.

Looking back, I’m not sure I blame them, but for those that waited it out, I’m very thankful.

I’ve been lucky enough to let most of the people who stuck it out know how much I appreciate them. To others, there are amends to be made, eventually.

I tell people in my life now, that I don’t argue well. I listen to what’s being said, and I think about it. I’m great at responding in the shower 6 hours later.

It’s not that I don’t argue well. It’s just that if I say what comes to mind in the moment, I have to say I’m sorry later. So, I don’t speak. I shut down, to quote a few people. Listen to what the person is saying, then respond later. In a thoughtful, well-crafted way.

This can be frustrating to someone who is pushing for a response, but I prefer this to having to say I’m sorry later.

In the meantime, I take my medicine.

I think before I speak.

I breathe.

And the writing from the last three years has helped immensely. Should I share my deepest darkest secrets? I say absolutely.

The biggest gift I was ever given, was learning that I was not alone. That there are others who suffer from my diagnosis. There are people out there who are assholes that don’t want to be assholes. They want to be kind and giving and understanding.

So, I share my crap, so the friends I have on Facebook, and my friends who read my blog, will know that they’re not alone, and that there is hope.

I’ll end by saying, if you are struggling–seek help. Seek it everywhere. It might take a while for the right person to come along. I sought help for the first time in 1995. I didn’t find a solution until 2001. I saw a dozen therapists. At least four different psychiatrists. In fact, the doctor, who changed my life, was recommended by a guy I went out with three or four times.

He changed my life.

Keep looking. If you don’t connect. Try someone else. Try someone else. Someone else.

Just don’t give up.

The solution is out there.

If I could do it, then you can do it.